Who's the Father?

[Zip]

62nd Ashan 718

It was getting harder and harder to knock on these doors.

From a very young age, Fiona O’Connor had decided that she would settle for nothing less than the best that life could offer her, would claw up to everything she felt was owed her. She excelled in school, she found a place in the foreign university of Viden and earned herself a first class honours in metaphysics, and she found tenure at in Scalvoris as a lecturer on magical theory. From humble beginnings, she had met every milestone she promised herself, struck every goal everyone said was too crazy too attempt. They cited distance, exorbitant schooling fees, and, most damning of all, veiled insinuations that she just wasn’t smart enough for the real world outside.

Respectfully: fuck them all.

She did it. Hell, she did it with style and she did it all on her own. Blood, sweat, tears, and a whole lot of tonics and definitively illegal drugs to stave off the sleep demons.

So why did she feel like complete shit everytime she had to go back to the old block for one of these things. Why did every accomplishment, every published article, the triumph of every award she had won for herself just melt away when she came home for one of these gatherings.

One of these baby showers.

None of her sisters had done a fraction of what she had achieved, yet why was she made less than a peer when she walked through that door.

She stared at said door she had to walk through, lifted a hand up to knock, then let it slowly dropped down again.

She was business wear when Xinemax had her baby and, rather than elevate her, it made her feel so out of place. Made her feel like she was this ornament that stood out in a shop; unwanted and unaffordable. She tried to dressed down after that debacle those arcs ago but now she just… well, she always had option anxiety when it came to dress-wear, but it never gotten this bad. She settled for a white blouse this time. Skirt? Skirt. Sandals. Leggings just smacked of desperation, she felt. Hairstyle? Hairstyle? Hairstyle? Her usual aggressive cut only highlighted how young she wasn’t anymore. She never liked long hair. Bob? Again: it felt like a statement she wasn’t ready to make. She went for the ponytail; the safe choice.

And maybe she was just a little bit desperate given that she was the last one left in the circle who hadn’t gotten hitched…

Xinemax was the first, and she took it in stride. They all saw that one coming. Phiraseph followed an arc after, and she thought, hey, of course the good girl found a home fast. Good for her. She was, despite everything, happy for her.

BUT QIT’RIA?

FUCKIN’ QIT’RIA?

It was a major wakeup call to a quarter-life crisis she wasn’t even sure what it was about.

But fuckin’ Qit’ria.

No; Qit’ria Blackwing now, wife of… he was a medium sized business owner with some shady rumours, but ultimately a respectable pillar of the community.

Okay, fuck it. She rapped on the door and waited, waited, waited. Was she the last one here?

[Qit'ria]

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Qit’ria sat there in her walk-in closet, alone, staring at her fat whale of a body. She saw the stretch marks as her stomach ballooned outward, and she still had nearly a full season to go of this. She often wondered if she was giving birth to a buffalo instead of a couple of baby people. She sighed, looking at the dress hanging there in front of her, paired with shoes and all the accessories by the servant who was in charge of such fashion choices. Qit’ria didn’t care about all of that.

Head hanging in her hands, she rolled it sideways, looking out the window of the family manor at the town they lorded over. Not the highest of lords, but nothing to scoff at. She hadn’t been happy for so long now. She pretended to be, she put on the smile, partook of these idiocracies, for her family, for her “friends”.

She squeezed into the dress, forcing her bloated baby tits into the gown, wincing from the pain of how swollen they’d become. She didn’t know what was missing, but there was a hole inside her that she couldn’t find, and most certainly couldn’t fill. Her cat, Sergeant Savage, jumped up on her mirror, and looked at her. She smiled, and scratched him behind the ears. He was such a good cat. The guards liked him, the servants liked him, for he was an insatiable hunter. He didn’t just kill mice, he killed the big rats, the sewer snakes, the pesky pigeons, and the screaming squirrels. If it moved, he hunted it. And he liked her, and seemed happy.

If only she could be.

Mrs. Qit’ria Blackwing. The mistake she was paying for after a particularly festival ball, one she never wanted to attend in the first place. No one had known that she dragged Blackwing back to her chambers for a night of passion, most certainly not just so she could feel something. She’d try anything to feel free and happy like her cat that came and went as he pleased. But when she knew she was pregnant, thankfully, early on. She went to Blackwing. Honour demanded that he ask for her hand. They were yet to be wed, even now, but soon. Thankfully her family had managed to come up with some excuse to appease the faith and the masses, though she mostly ignored it. They could all shove off. Just because she was a noble didn’t mean her business was any of theirs.

She left her closet, strolling through her massive bedroom, sitting room, the hall of her wing of the family manor, and made her way down to the party. A baby shower. Her sisters had insisted on organizing it. Well, two of them. Fiona was off in some foreign land being her usual bookwormy, anti-social self. But at least she was doing what she wanted. Knew what she wanted. Though Qit was fairly certain her sister was a lesbian. She’d never had any interest in a man, as far as Qit was aware. She smirked at the thought. Her mother would have an absolute panic attack if that was the case, and her dad would just make inappropriate jokes but wish her all the best.

The halls were empty except for the posted guards, the servants busy catering to the party. She strolled along in her light slippers, passing by a painting, one that had been in the house since she’d been little. It was some wild, dark haired woman, and a half naked frizzy haired mage fighting some giant frog. The entire scene was so dark, but the looks of determination on the women was impressive. She wondered who the artist was, the piece was unsigned.

Stopping at the ornate doors to the ballroom, smiling nervously at the guards that stood there. Their guards weren’t the ornate, decorated, smiling guards of other noble families, for hers ran the military. They took it seriously. Every guard was wearing extremely functional armor, weaponry, and while they were perfectly cleaned and shined, they all showed signs of combat wear.

And they were family. They both smiled at her, and one nodded at the door, telling her it was time to go in. She suspected they knew she wasn’t looking forward to it. When she was younger, she petitioned to join the forward scouts, the highest risk company in their military, functioning as spies, assassins, often spending more time behind enemy lines than in safe territory. But her mother put an end to that notion, and her father, the general, did whatever mother said.

The doors were opened, and Qit’ria’s face was already wearing her best public smile. Her hair was heavily curled at the bottom, hanging over her breasts and down her back, straight toward the top. Her dress was peach in hue, and made no attempt to hide her pregnancy, which quite frankly would’ve been impossible. So the dressmaker had simply worked with it, making her as beautiful as possible, and of course, accentuating her larger assets. Thankfully she wasn’t wearing heels, just the nice slippers. She would’ve toppled over otherwise.

She was greeted by guest after guest, giving the woman half hugs and a peck on the cheek, the men a curt nod and smile. Eventually she was brought to her family, milling about, her two sisters pointing and watching her, gossiping and talking feverishly, waving her over. Qit’ria wished she could roll her eyes. Reaching the pair, she nodded and smiled as they complimented her, though really complimenting themselves. Then Qit’ria saw the black sheep, and her smile grew genuine.

Fiona, standing there, looking as if she were sucking on a lemon, in a ponytail of all things. Qit’ria had expected some sort of mannish style from the nerdy sister, functional over beauty. Qit’ria walked over to Fiona, smiling. They had never been particularly close, but what little they had together was more genuine than what either of them had with Xinamax and Phiraseph. A comfortable nature between them.

She pulled her slightly taller sister into a hug, whispering in her ear, “Have you found the food tables yet?” Stepping back, still holding Fiona’s hands, “Walk with me. Tell me all about this island of yours. What do you teach? How magic makes the suns rise and the moons chase one another?” It was a jest, one she knew annoyed her sister. Qit’ria made no guise of her interest in the banquet tables, though was cursing how many people stood between her and them. She knew Pepe, their head chef, had only made things he knew she liked. Which meant shrimp puffs and crab cakes and deviled gator eggs. Her mouth watered at the thought.

[Zip]

Every statement held a hidden barb. Every question bore a veiled sting.

Have you found the food tables yet? - Translation: You’re too thin.

Tell me about this island of yours? - You’re obscure, you’re irrelevant, you’re a name in a place no one’s heard or cared about.

What do you teach? How magic makes the suns rise and the moons chase one another? - Your expertise isn’t serious. Your field of study is a joke akin to a common children’s myth.

Little words, little jests, little verbal prods - but it hurt more than her family knew. Each sister had a niche growing up, a niche mother disapproved of and father ignored, but a niche that was at least tolerated nonetheless - except hers. Xinemax was the bad girl, the troublemaker, the fierce one that had to be pulled out of the fire when she stuck her hand in out of… curiosity was giving it too much credit. More like simply because she could. Rather than despised for her unwomanly conduct, she gained a sort of perverse following from the peasantry, a sort of ‘what would she do next?” that kept her going higher and higher until she caught the eye of a Viscount that favored her, if the official words were to be believed, her ‘strength of spirit’.

Fiona’s response? Please kill me if I can’t unhear that.

Regardless, she had bumbled her way into what everyone perceived to be a successful life and Fiona was… resentful didn’t quite cover it.

Phiraseph on the other hand was the dutiful daughter, the woman’s woman. She dressed well, ate proper and nice, and sat at the table right. All the of the sisters had very physical pursuits, but Phiraseph was the only one hid it fully rather than simply downplayed it. Always so nice, always so sweet, always so-

It was hard to see her as a real person; hard to empathize with her in anyway. It was like growing up with a doll that sometimes spoke to you.

And then there was Qit’ria.

She had to go through three doors to even enter the main courtyard. The first door lead to a gate that led to an even bigger door and she wondered, as she walked through each one, why she was even here? She could have spent the rest of her life on her little island, content with teaching students about magic. Instead, she found herself returning, returning, returning, suffering indignities, as if she hoped one day mother and father and the sisters and the people would open up their arms and said ‘Fiona! You’re the best! Your academic achievements have brought glory upon-”

Hoped.

And Qit’ria was the biggest naysayer of all.

She exchanged a death glare from a distance with Xinemax; they had not parted on anything resembling good terms. She waved to Phiraseph, who waved back in turn; a vacant exchange of pleasantries for a vacant relationship. She exchanged curt greetings with the few who still remembered she was the general’s daughter, and then the horror of the night came and wrapped her in a hug.

“No. The island has a horrifying amount of cannibals deer and we don’t know what to do. I teach a module on magic.” Three questions answered rapidly and almost dismissively. She has balked at the hug, she flinched when Qit’ria held her hands, and she knew her physical body language squirming through the crowd of people was nothing short of complete revulsion… yet she allowed herself to be led.

Qit’ria was, at the end of the day, the lesser evil in a crowd with nothing but pain in it.

She supposed she owed her the bare minimum well wishes and small talk

“Congratulations,” she said, patting her tummy briefly and lightly as they struggled past a particularly portly gentleman. Surely such a large man should be far away from the banquet table lest he the excesses kill him this fine night. She took a deep breath, already regretting the false words she were about to say.

“Tell me everything.”

[Qit'ria]

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“Cannibals? Really? Is that a cultural thing, or are they starving?”

Qit’ria found herself wondering what people tasted like. Probably like pork if she truly had to guess. But the pregnant woman steered her sister forward to the food tables, taking some small enjoyment in the lulls of silence between them. It was better than the constant prattling of her other sisters. As the crowd parted for the whale and the skinny mouse, Qit’s eyes grew big. Pepe truly had outdone himself. He’d always had a soft spot for the youngest of the brood. Most did. Probably why her mother had been so insistent on knocking down her desire for the scouts. That was something for the firstborn, who clearly had no interest in it, not the babe of the group.

She picked up a fish egg and pepper tart, savoring the explosion of flavor in her mouth. She knew that Fiona didn’t really want to hear everything. Qit’ria was fairly certain the bookworm would’ve been happier back on cannibal filled island, curled up with a good book and a bottle of something strong and foul. But Fiona asked, and Qit’ria would answer.

“Oh, you know how it goes. Men come beating down your door, and Daddy can only fight them back for so long. Especially with mother goading them onward. Though I found mine on the night of your birthday. It’s why I missed the cake incident. A shame too, that story was the talk of the town for a full season.”

She cradled her bloated belly, then winced as it felt like one of the babies headbutted her kidney. She grabbed a plate, and began filling it with an unladylike amount of food. No one would dare tell a pregnant woman to not eat so much, except perhaps their mother. She held up something new she didn’t recognize. Looked to be raw fish and rice wrapped up in some black-green plant. “What do you make of this? I’ve not seen this before.”

She popped it in her mouth and was pleasantly surprised. Whatever it was, it was delicious. Being a coastal kingdom, they truly had the best seafood. In a much more genuine tone, “Have you had a chance to pet Sergeant Savage yet? I’ve no doubts that he’s missed curling up with you in the library.” Fiona had been the only person Qit’ria’s cat would cuddle with. She used to be jealous of it in her youth, but had long since moved past it.

Qit’ria finished shoving another puff pastry of some sort in her mouth, turning only to come face to face with their mother. “Qit’ria Janice. Must you look like you’re trying to hide my granddaughters under your fatness? Why can’t you be healthier like Fiona here? My word, you keep this up and Mr. Blackwing will never put anymore grandchildren in you. You wouldn’t want him to find a mistress do you?”

Qit’ria instantly shutdown under her mother’s disapproving gaze, as she’d always had. She didn’t have the fire or fight her sisters did when it came to the woman. Too much of her father in her. She was both the favored baby and the most bullied by the woman. Qit’ria swallowed her food, meekly uttering, “Yes, mother. Sorry mother. No mother, of course not.”

Tears were welling behind her eyes, but she’d long since learned to hold them in. Ladies simply didn’t cry in public. She set her heavy plate of food down on the buffet table. “Good, glad to see you’re being sensible. It’s a shame Mr. Blackwing couldn’t be here tonight, but the kingdom does rely on his ships and business sense. Not everyone can be layabouts.” Mother was looking at Fiona on that last barb. “Did you even attempt to brush your hair Fiona? My word.”

And just like the whirlwind she’d arrived upon, she disappeared, probably to go harass their other sisters. Qit’ria pulled free of her sister’s grasp, her throat constricting. Mother and her both knew Mr. Blackwing wasn’t here solely because of business. He wasn’t here because he didn’t love her, nor the children she carried. She was an obligation, a burden. A mistake. Qit’ria found her feet carrying to one of the side doors of the ballroom, leading out to the garden, her face red in anger and shame.

The doors were opened by the guards posted there and the pregnant woman rushed through the brushes and flowers to her favorite bench, at the foot of her father’s statue. It was beautifully carved of dark marble, depicting him slaying the Gorgalith that had threatened to destroy the town, several arcs back. It was the fight that cemented his role as General. Him and his men fought for fourteen trials, holding the invading Shessian army at bay. And when the invaders grew desperate, they’d summoned a beast from another world, to destroy them all since victory seemed impossible. Their father ordered his troops back, to begin evacuating the city, while he single handedly fought the impossible. He’d won, saving the town, but lost an arm and a leg in the process.

And he’d started off as a scout. Just as Qit’ria had wanted to do. She wanted to be like him so badly. But she wasn’t strong like he was. As evident by the silent tears she shed, in the privacy of the labyrinth of plants that the sisters all knew well. They all had their reasons for hiding here. Xinamax would often bring boys here, Phiraseph to be alone and happy. Qit’ria never knew what Fiona did here. But Qit’ria only came here to cry.

Why couldn’t she be more like him?

And then the babies began kicking her from within wildly, worse than they ever had before. She began gasping in pain, clutching at her belly, laying sideways on the bench, groaning. Meanwhile, inside, her mother and sisters had begun looking for her, as it was time to begin the gift opening.

[Zip]

“No, they’re just… deer.” Fiona said, sounding as puzzled as Qit’ria was. “They just hate things and everything dies around them.”

She followed Qit’ria as she moved from food item to food item, staring on in differing expressions and vocalizations of indifference, disgust, tentative ‘uh, should you be eating that?’, renewed indifference, and worry. She ate nothing for herself nor was she offered anything; food was just another distraction from the world and, after the university offered arcane trials to remove the food and drink, she had successfully cut down her food intake to no more than one egg per year. It wasn’t perfect and it struck her on occasion that her reduced eating habits somewhat mirrored a snake’s but it was the best current magic had to offer.

Banquets. Rows and rows of food. The people who clamored over to them like sheep trying to get back into the pen.

She did not miss this at all.

She did miss talk of her former exploits either; the cake incident, for one.

“I would prefer,” she said tersely. “That we do not talk about the cake incident.” They had called her a witch for seasons after, apparently. All the time she had taken to impress her profession there and they could only remember it when framed in… that incident.

“It looks ghastly,” she offered when Qit’ria picked up something that was rice and seaweed and raw fish in between. “Like someone forgot to cook the darn thing and decided some presentation alone made a dish. It’s a failure of the cook. Pepe should be asham-”

A chill passed through her body, and she felt the shadow of the beast loom close.

Mother.

“Qit’ria, I think we should go find somewhere to seat down.” Where was she? She scanned the surroundings, trying to find the devil hiding in the details of the party. She heard something about Sergeant Savage -Sergeant Savage was alive- but there were more pressing matters than a cat with the temperment of a rabid tiger (oh how she missed the little prick.) The chill only intensified, an abyssal coldness so profound it seemed to drain the heat itself from the entire area-

And like the unseen assassin, Mother had crept up right in front of them.

Bitch, she wanted to say. “Mother.”

The woman ignored her in favor of Qit’ria. She was both absolutely relieved and utterly offended. Arcs without seeing her and all she had was eyes for Qit’ria, yet another sow carrying the future of the Janices. “Nice to see you too, mother.” she muttered.

In the bit ahead, Mother managed to fat shame, insinuate her husband was gonna leave her, and compliment Fiona for the sole reason of putting down Qit’ria even more. Fiona was outraged and any guilt of running away from this costal nightmare evaporated once more. Father was a sheep with a title, mother was an unpleasable hag who passed on her cruelty and rage to everyone she opened her mouth to. That final little jab at her didn’t phase her after that cruel tongue lashing she gave to her younger sister.

She followed after Qit’ria, passing the guards into the garden.

Ah, old memories.

One thing she had in common with Xinemax, she supposed: they both brought boys here.

Well, boy in her case.

Her fascination with magic began when she had, on one of her fortnightly escapes down to the peasantry, encountered a boy who could raise the dead. Rather than repulsed, she was amazed by what he could do. She visited him twice a season at first, then thrice, then it became a weekly sneakaway to his little barn. Once, they decided to reverse the dynamic, and he climbed up there and they nuzzled their noses together, their foreheads touching, and she kissed a boy for the first time.

And then they did more than that.

She always suspected that he died when Father slayed the Gorgalith.

Wrong; she knew. Suspected was the first season when she couldn’t find him.

Maybe his life force was linked to the thing or maybe he had conjured otherworldy fleshy armour to clad himself in it, but she never made eye contact with father ever again. She had so many questions about that day but…

She supposed, quite bitterly, that even her memory of the garden was tainted by the fact that her father had slewed the one boy she loved. A boy who could have been a traitor or coerced or she would never, ever know because he died like a twisted, otherworldly dog on the battlefield.

The sobbing cut her out of her reverie.

Fiona sighed. Fiona sighed hard. Why were people so sensitive?

She approached her sister from behind, laying an awkward, tentative hand on her shoulder. “There, there,” she said. “You know how mother is. She’s vicious and insecure. She’s just projecting her fears onto you. I’m sure your husband is a bigger man than her outlook on life.”

Pretty words with no veracity in them. She didn’t even know this Blackwing, but she hoped they did the job.

“It’s your big day,” she said. “Cheer up. Don’t let mother- Guards! Guards! Guards! Guards!”

Her sister was in pain. She held a hand to her belly and clutched them tight and she could do nothing to help but call for the guards. There was so little. She had taken some course on medicine, but the art of healing was never one she excelled in, nor was she very taken with-

“Oh for fate’s sake,” Zipper groaned, staring down at the very pregnant huntress in a dress she never would have imagined her wearing in, well, ever. “We really need to stop meeting in these fuckin’ charades.”

[Qit'ria]

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Qit’ria heard Zipper’s voice over her pained grunts. Her own eyes were screwed shut, as she clutched at her belly. Something was wrong. She was bigger than when she’d gone to sleep, aboard Enrick’s ship, in her own hammock. A gasp came out, “Zeepa. It. Me.” She didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but every thing felt wrong. She felt violated and yet, that she was the violator.

Her baby kicked with one foot at her left ribs. Then again at her kidney with his other foot. Then again at her opposite ribs with his other foot. Other foot? Her eyes grew wide. She’d just realized what was going on. Her baby wasn’t alone in her belly. There was another in her. Panic set in. Her baby was in danger. She hadn’t even thought about herself. “Zeepa. Nightmare. In me!”

She rolled and writhed, and on the right side of her overly swollen belly, there were bulges as it pushed and kicked and punched. Her groans and grunts were becoming screams. She had to get it out of her, without hurting her own child. She hadn’t the slightest idea as to how. And that was when the beast decided for her.

Qit’ria was only in her nightwear, a simple blouse and loinclothe with her belly very much exposed. From her navel, the tiniest tendril of darkness wormed its way out, little more than a spider’s string. But as it pulled itself out of her more and more, it grew in size and becoming more and more opaque. And Qit’ria couldn’t be in more pain, evident by the ear splitting screams.

Soon the shadowy beast flopped out of her belly, landing upon the grass within the labyrinth, accompanied by several floating, black feathers. A stiff wind conjured up, and the feathers were scattered in the distance, seeking out hosts. The shadow beast had other plans. It seeped into the ground, quickly seeking shelter from the pair of Dreamwalkers.

And then it began.

The hedges and bushes of the maze grew tall, leaves becoming razor sharp, roots growing into lashing tentacles, branches becoming spears. The labyrinth quickly evolved into single, living entity, with them at the heart of it, with nothing more than each other, the bench Qit’ria layed upon, and some strange marble statue.

Qit’ria’s face was slick with sweat, and her sharp ears, still echoing the aye-aye mouse as she had been doing the trial before bed, picked up people’s screams. At first they were screams of pain and fear, but then they turned… bestial. Something had happened to them. Her instinct was to reach for her javelin, but found them missing, her hand grasping at empty air.

She’d stopped wearing them to bed, because her belly and the hammock made it impossible to get comfortable otherwise. Her arms wrapped around her belly, muttering, “Be live, be live. It okay. It gone.” But she felt no movement from within her, and she immediately feared the worst. Her baby was dead.

And the rage that brought out of her was white hot. She ignored the pain in her as she stood up, still fat and wobbling, but there was a look of determination in her eyes as she stared at the plants around her. “I kill cunt you!”

Thankfully for them, a pair of guards arrived, for Fiona had, in fact, called for them. Less fortunate was the red eyes and swirling black feathers around them within the dream people, nor the swords in their hands. And most certainly not the feral grins upon their faces.

They spoke no words, but gave off an aura of insatiable hunger. And they were drooling at the scent of two dreamwalkers, both with sparks. A delicacy. One stepped toward Zipper, slashing with the sword, in a manner unbefitting the guard. It seemed the Nightmare wasn’t nearly as accustomed to being limited by a mortal body. The other guard stepped toward Qit’ria, stabbing outward toward her. She twisted her belly away from the guard, while stepping into his reach. She grabbed him by the ear, and yanked him down toward her. The twisting motion exposed his neck, and the huntress bit down on it, biting deep into the vein there on the side. Blood splattered her in the face as she pulled away, letting it drench her completely.

She picked up his sword, letting Zipper handle her own guard. She knew the woman to be more than capable. And Qit’ria moved toward one of the three exits from their little pocket in the maze, slashing at the probing root tendrils, which seemed to be seeking literally anything to grab onto. Each tendril that snapped out was quickly chopped off, and was snarled at.

[Zip]

“Yes, yes it’s you.” Zipper said irritably. Who else could it be in sunny Emea? She had met nobles, a rupturer, and several other peculiar fellows in these dream sequences, but none of them more frequent than the huntress. ‘Fiona’s’ concern over her ‘sister’ was evaporating rapidly as the persona faded away. She looked around the garden, her ether sense blinking wildly. Another Nightmare, no doubt. There was some small, irrational hope that Jesine’s gift would have granted her -them- some reprieve from the torments of Emea, but...

Then it hit her.

Not: It’s me; it’s inside me.

She turned back to Qit’ria but the shadow had already tore itself out of the huntress’ swollen belly-

She blinked. It just hit her. She blinked again, the shadow creature momentarily forgotten as she remembered the little fact that a person appeared as they were in a Nightmare-

“Qit’ria, you’re pregnant?” she snapped. That was all the conversation she got in: the Nightmare moved fast, seeding itself into the dreamscape as the last one had done. Only while their prior friend dealed in fire, this one worked in shadow.

And possession.

The guards ‘Fiona’ had called were neither helpful nor friendly. The taint of the Nightmare was present on the feral smile on their lips and the way their eyes radiated cold, dead hunger; extensions of the great nightmare that now besotted them.

She was… so, so sick of this, and there was no fanfare to her response. As the guard approached, she raised a finger and shot an Ether Missile that tore through the guard’s chest, leaving a neat hole that went straight through him. Visual static shrouded the hole and visual static shrouded her hand, and the guard collapsed into a heap.

By the time she turned back, Qit’ria was already off.

That… wouldn’t do. Friend was a strong word, but the huntress had been an able teamate, one that had taken the responsibility and the initiative to step up to the frontline during their prior Nightmares, and it would be unprincipled to ask her to provide that same role while she looked like she could topple over at another time.

“Qit’ria, wait!” she called out, moving after her. “Qit’ria!” She closed her eyes, the death of verbs she would be party to in a few trills taking her. “No fight! No run! Baby live! No fight! Behind me!” she called out, her hands flashing out to send streaks of violent color streak at the tendrils, vaporizing them dead, streaks of colorful static upon the ground where shadow once lay. “Qit’ria! When baby make?”

[Qit'ria]

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Qit’ria stopped in her weed whacking when Zipper called out to her. Telling her to stop. That her baby lived. How would she know? She couldn’t feel the lack of movements. But as Zip asked when the baby was made, or going to be made, Qit’ria felt the kick. She thanked the spirits for that. She wondered if the baby liked hearing Zipper’s voice. Which was such a strange, maternal type thought for the huntress, and she shook it off. Was that a remnant of Qit’ria Blackwing?

“Mid season next!”

Qit’ria listened to Zipper’s command though, an unusual move for the normally self reliant woman. She moved in closer to Zipper, holding her sword with a lot more confidence and readiness than she had in their previous meetings. “It live. It like you.” Why did she say that? Qit’ria saw the guard with the hole in his chest, remembering Zipper’s energy beams she’d used previously. Qit’ria calmed herself down, focusing on her breathing, having to focus.

They were surrounded by a living maze that wanted to eat them. There were likely more people coming through the maze for them. She was limited in normally aggressive fighting capabilities, but she could guard Zipper’s back, and be an extra set of eyes and ears. Qit’ria sniffed with her enhanced nose as well, detecting something… off. She could make out Zip’s scent, carrying the smells common to city people, she could make out the various plants’ floral scents. But there was still something… wrong. It wasn’t quite the smell of a corpse. Her gut was telling her that it was the scent of a corpse to be. How she knew what that smelled like was beyond her.

“Zeepa. Need save magic. Too much no see.”

Qit’ria looked up at the statue in the middle of them. It was some massive monster, and a man wielding a dagger and a spear. It immediately reminded her of the stone paddle. She picked up the sheathe and belt from the fallen guard, and strapped them around her waist, and then pointed up at the weapons.

And despite having just said they needed to save magic, she didn’t know if Zip could fight without it. “Want sword, spear, dagger, or hand?”

Qit’ria could use any of them well enough as the other, so once Zipper made her pick, Qit’ria would take the rest.

[Zip]

“Safe magic? Of course. The usual?” Zipper slapped the front of her blouse and, in a great explosion of the colorful static that seemed to be her trademark as an etherist, she infused her blouse with the power of Marlorite, star metal that surpasses even the protection of steel. It was a terrible pity the belly was exposed but they would quickly find something to wrap it in-

Oh. It took her a belated moment for the Qit’ria’s real meaning to shine through.

Save magic.

“I strong,” Zipper offered. This was going to be long Nightmare for more than one reason. They never needed to communicate so much in prior engagements “I much magic. I save but I use too.” Zipper said, gesturing to her hands. She pointed at the knife and spear and dagger, shook her head, and then raised her hand and closed it into a fist.

Hand it was.

She was no swordswomen and her mutations robbed her of any chance she had to practice with weapons in her formative years… but she could brawl with the best of them.

“Who father?” Zipper asked, inquisitive. There was much at stake here within this nightmare, but… she was curious. They had only been apart for barely more than a season, and she had ballooned into this mother-to-be in those 70 odd trials or so. She must have been pregnant even during the battle with the Fire Nightmare, but she showed no bump then. “Father take care?”

She gestured for whatever weapon Qit wanted to enhanced. “Save magic, yes, but small magic can do. Come.”

[Qit'ria]

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Qit’ria trusted Zip’s judgment on her magic. Qit’ria wished she could use her own, but she wasn’t sure how useful it would be in this situation. She didn’t have many strong forms yet. Something she intended to remedy once this baby was out of her. Qit’ria reached up and grabbed the marble spear, and with a grunting tug, pulled it from the statue’s hand, finding it fall away a lot more easily than she’d expected. She let Zipper do her thing on it. A sword was good, but she’d need to be more defensive in this time, and for that, the spear in her hand would do much better.

“Father. No know name. Avrilaariel. Black feather. Red eyes. One wing. Strong man. Good man.” She didn’t let on that she missed him, despite the things Faith had told her about him. Qit’ria didn’t believe them. The healer had to have been mistaken. There was no way.

Ready now, Qit’ria knew that they needed to pick a path out of here. She tried to remember the way, but was unable to. That was other Qit’ria’s memories, not hers. Lucidity brought other flaws with it. She wondered if she’d be able to access those memories later, with more practice. Turning her ear to the first of the three exists, she listened carefully. Heavy footsteps, the clinking of metal chains. The aye-aye mouse in her wanted to run, as all mice are want to do when being hunted.

She shook her head. Definitely not that way. The other exit was near to that one, with another behind them, opposite the first two. Away from the enemies. But the sounds were still distant. And Qit’ria had an idea. Crouched at the knees, she picked up the bench, mostly wood, and carried it over to the exit she’d intended for them to take.

“We go now.”

She let Zipper take the lead, and then she set the bench down between the wriggling shrubbery. She scooted it closer to one side, smiling as the blind, grabbing tendrils lashed onto it. She then yanked it over to the other side of the maze’s corridor so it was lashed onto from the opposite side as well. Then she stepped back and watched, hoping it would work. The tendrils tugged back and forth on the bench, but it was strong enough that it wasn’t ripped apart, not yet at least. And soon, more tendrils lashed out from both sides, grabbing and holding it as more and more formed. It didn’t take long until the exit they had taken had become a wall, indistinguishable from the other hedges.

Qit’ria spun her spear about, carrying it ready, bringing up the rear on Zipper, staying in the center of the hedges so as to not be lashed herself. Zipper’s own curiosity as to the father of Qit’s baby had spurred on more curiosity in the huntress, for while they’d never properly met, Zip was definitely a friend. And Qit only had two of those now.

“Hair better. Less wild. Horse tail, nice.”

Well, no one had ever accused Qit of being the most sociable creature, but an attempt was made. When they got out of this, perhaps she’d find out where Zipper was, visit her after Desnind. The walls of the maze were not evenly high, something Qit’ria found to be odd. Why weren’t they uniform? It was all the same plant after all. She watched as Zipper stepped through a beam of light, cast from some high tower in the manor they’d started out in. In the split second that Zipper had blocked the beam, a tendril moved forward in the shade. But as the light returned, it retreated just as quickly.

Scrutinizing the tops of the maze more quickly now she saw that it refused to grow up through light, or at least stronger light. “Zeepa.” She pointed at these things, even demonstrated with the beam. Shadow beast. Shadows run from light. And even in its possession of the plants, it still maintained that weakness. But it was dark in this dreamscape, so light was limited.

A shout was heard, way too close for comfort. There were several feet marching rapidly on the other side of one of the hedgewalls. The enemy was close, or so it seemed, being a maze after all. Qit’ria held her breath, and waited.